


if it kills me (you)

by SpiritTamer



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (I Suppose Physical As Well), Blood Magic, Emotional Manipulation/Abuse, Forbidden Magic, Graphic Description of Cutting/an Open Wound/Blood (NOT in the context of self harm), Thaumcraft, modded minecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23445532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritTamer/pseuds/SpiritTamer
Summary: "I'll complete this research if it killsyoume!"
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	if it kills me (you)

**Author's Note:**

> A scene between the first Thaumaturge and the first Blood Mage, on the origin of the [Bloody Scrivener's Tools](https://ftbwiki.org/Bloody_Scrivener%27s_Tools) from Forbidden Magic
> 
> There’s a lot more lore behind these characters than I give context too, but I hope this is still enjoyable. Heed to those tag warnings, please!

It’s peaceful, for the first time in the last few days. 

  
  


They’ve finally returned to the base from a recent outing, more than enough knowledge learned, and plenty of close encounters. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, Ichor perches on the window sill to their study, calm hand holding a brush which painstakingly carefully paints the markings on the latest blank sigil he’s inscribed.

  
  


Thaum is deep in her writing, hunched over her desk, no doubt recording as many details as their discoveries as possible. They’d arrived back past midnight, and she’d rushed to the study, closing the door to work in the quiet. He’d tried many times to call her to bed, with no luck.

  
  


When he headed over to work earlier that morning, he could tell she had not moved from her seat. The only difference in the room was the amount of loose scrolls scattered at her feet, scraped ideas, he assumes.

  
  


He would continue to try to convince her to sleep when he could, but the reaction he risked by forcing her away from working wasn’t worth it. 

  
  


At least now, both in their own studies, they could relax. For a short while.

  
  


The comfortable silence turns into a scratching sound. A nail against a chalkboard in an empty classroom. Frenzied sounding, a sharp point grinding against something. 

  
  


“ _No, No, No, No, No…_ ”

  
  


Ichor looks up sharply, and watches as Thaum’s quill desperately scratches against the parchment of her book, devoid of ink. She jabs into the ink bottle at her side, no luck found, as it’s empty glass appearance taunts her. Distressed hands grab at the unfinished parchment, space at the bottom left unwritten, then go to the sides of her head, pulling her hair and gasping, deep breaths in and out of her mouth.

  
  


“Hey, hey...” Ichor quickly drops the halfway inscribed sigil and rushes over to her, placing two gentle palms on her shoulders. “Calm down, what’s wrong?”

  
  


The feeling of him leaning over barely makes a difference, and he has to hold her wrists and bring them away from her head, turning her around and forcing them to face each other. “Thaum. Look at me.” He manages more forcefulness than usual, and gets her to tear her eyes away from the book. “What happened?”

  
  


Some stuttering, as he watches a single drop of sweat run down her forehead. “We don’t have- I can’t, I have to finish…”

  
“What you were writing.” He finishes for her, and she parrots it back, nodding. 

  
  


“I need _more._ ” She seems to regain some sense of self then, and frees her wrist from his grip, grabbing at the empty ink well and holding it up between them. “We don’t have any left in storage.” The bit of cracked skin in the center of her forehead glows, shedding some reflective gold light on the glass, and Ichor swallows heavily. He hates that thing, whatever it may be, no matter how much she dismisses it.

  
  


Eyes darting between her own and the empty bottle, feeling like he was on a timer, he exhales. “I can get more ink. It’ll take ten minutes to get to the market, or I could head down to the river-”

  
  


“I don’t have _time!_ ” With a half growl, half shriek, she drops the ink bottle and clutches at Ichor’s collar, yanking him down to her height and closer to the unfinished pages laid on the desk. The inkwell rolls off the table and smashes on the floor, mindless noise to Thaum, who’s eyes don’t seem all there anymore. “I don’t have _time_ for you to get more, I need to finish this _now._ ” 

  
  


_Why?_ His head asks, horrified. _Why do you write like you’re running out of time?_

  
  


“...Okay.” His mouth says quietly, any protests faltering before they reach his tongue. “Okay. What can I do?”

  
  


_Surprise_ at his agreement isn’t quite her reaction. It’s more like thankfulness, something he’d not come to expect. Her hands loosen around his collar, and trail down his shoulders. “ _I need..._ I need something that I can write with…” Breath still coming in unsteady rasps, she runs the pads of her fingers down one of his arms, tracing the light veins on the pale skin. 

  
  


“ _Please._ ” She murmurs, almost quiet enough to be inaudible, if they weren’t face to face.

Ichor’s mouth goes dry, his heart seems to stop, every nerve in his body stinging as it violently rejects this. He should be backing away, terrified, at the idea of his magic being _thrown away_ to be used for a simple line of script.

  
  


And yet, instead, he fakes innocence, gaping at her. “ _What?_ ”

  
  


“Your blood, it’s- it’s just like ink.” At the lack of immediate rejection, Thaum’s expression becomes pleading, a morbid, desperate grin spreading across her face. “I could use it to write, to finish this entry-” Sweating palms grip his own. _“Please,_ Ichor.”

  
  


She waits for an answer, as the silence from before returns, deafening this time.

  
  


Far too much time passes.

  
  


“Alright.” He finally replies, voice barely a whisper. 

  
  


If he was having second thoughts, there was no time to voice them. Thaum’s eyes don’t leave his as she gets the answer she wanted, and blindly grapples at the desk, nails scraping against the wood, desperately feeling for her quill. Grasping it with white knuckles, she slams Ichor’s wrist forwards against the table and stabs midway up his arm, as he hisses and doubles over. 

  
  


(He won’t scream. He won’t let her know how much it hurts, when it’s not his own steady hand making the cut. He can’t do that to her)

  
  


She no doubt pierces a vein with the amount of blood that sprays both of them, now splattered across the lens of Ichor’s glasses. He manages to bring his head up and looks at her hopelessly with gritted teeth and weak eyes.

  
  


But Thaum has stopped paying attention to him, now staring down at the embedded quill, and slowly begins to pull it down the length of his arm, turning it into a long gash till it meets his wrist.

  
  


He whimpers through it, face paling by the second. _This is not what your life is meant to be used for,_ his brain screams at him, watching the way Thaum’s usually tired eyes light up as the blood spills out onto the desk, pooling in an amount equivalent to more than enough ink to finish her latest entry. There is the sound of a clock counting down in his head, each beat of the second hand representing a life point, as they tick down, his altar rapidly emptying. And for what? A few lines of writing?

  
  


The pool of blood eventually runs over the edge of the table and drips onto discarded entries below, the sound of the drops hitting the parchment lining up with each ticking sound in his head. 

  
  


It must’ve only been a few more seconds, but feels like an eternity to Ichor before Thaum removes the quill, satisfied. Letting go of his arm, he staggers backwards, wincing, tugging his sleeve down over the cut and pressing the white cloth into it with his palm, halting the bleeding as much as he could. 

  
  


Thaum does not look back at him. She lifts up the quill, dripping wet with a newfound source of ink, turns back to her book, and resumes writing.

  
  


As he stumbles out of the room, he knows the light-headedness is from the blood loss. The empty, aching feeling in his chest though, he’s not so sure about. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


. . .

  
  
  
  
  
  


_There's nothing more frustrating then having to pause your research to refill your inkwell._

  
  


Finishing the original entry she was working on, Thaum carefully pens in the sentence. Then, she pauses. Hears the water running in the other room as Ichor washes off his wound. The one that _she_ created, the one that she used.

  
  


She scraps the wording she had in mind for the next line. Someday, however many years, decades, centuries in the future that may be, when someone follows in her footsteps, and devolves themself into this state, they will read this. And if she were to be truthful, they would realize the writer used the blood, the _life_ of another to complete their work. 

  
  


Her disciples will be selfless, as she was not. 

  
  
_Sometimes you're just so desperate to complete a research you'd rather use_ ~~ _another’s_~~ _your own blood as ink than stop to go find a refill._


End file.
